


The Prince and The Assassin

by SapphyreLily



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: M/M, Magic AU, mentions of killing, side character death, slightly medevil au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-14
Updated: 2017-03-14
Packaged: 2018-10-05 01:54:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10294814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SapphyreLily/pseuds/SapphyreLily
Summary: Hidden identities, never revealed, until a night when all ends meet.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bianoyami (poeticalcreation)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/poeticalcreation/gifts).



> So Bia gave me another song and whoops, here is a fic.
> 
> Based on Red's [Yours Again](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KWXXho5SRxg)

He sweeps a hand over darkened walls, fingers trailing sparks over stone. His eyelids are closed, but vivid images play out behind them: flashes of memory, sharp and defined.

A breeze rustles past and his hand shoots out, palm open, ready to fire.

But then he remembers; no, no. He can’t do that. He can’t compromise the mission, just because he was dreaming.

Dreaming _again._

He reaches for the wall again, tracing the moss and dirt covering it, gliding forward, step by step.

_Hot breath curls over his ear, its touch teasing. It lingers just a moment, whispering its secret, and then dissipates, fading into coolness once more._

He shakes his head, eyes landing on the sigil on the back of his hand – a darkened scar, illuminated briefly by the moonlight overhead. He exhales lowly.

_Remember your place._

He stares ahead into the blackness, then closes his eyes.

He can feel the weight of eyes on him from all around, and even where he feels no burning gaze, he cannot look. It’s staring back at him, and it makes his eyes water to try and locate the sources.

He starts forward again, but the breeze moves with him, as if it knows what he’s doing. It flaps around his robes, not hard enough to make a sound, but with enough force that he knows it’s sentient.

**_Go back. You can still stop this._ **

He pushes the voice away, but his heart burns. Not with the fire of his people, but with an ache so acute it’s like he’s being ripped apart.

_I’m sorry. Loyalty to my people comes first._

His feet move, but his heart and mind replay memories that make him seem like he’s stumbling with the weight of them.

_Flame and wind, dancing through the air, twin jets that intertwine and create a shower of sparks._

_Laughing, teasing, feet cutting through long grass; tripping, falling, tumbling over each other with reverberating joy._

_Soft hands, large hands; traversing over faces, brushing across lips and sweeping across fine cheekbones._

He stops. There is someone ahead of him – a guard, maybe, but he can’t be sure, not in this darkness.

There is movement, and he slices out with a materialised flame sword, swiftly decapitating the person and catching appendage and body before they can roll and make a sound. He sets the head on the ground and steps around it silently, shadows hiding his expression.

He feels nothing. He is numb to the kill; it is part of his job, an extension of him, an everyday occurrence.

But in the back of his mind he can hear retching, and he wants to feel that, if only remotely.

_You are my humanity, and I miss you._

The wind pushes more insistently at his feet, as if trying to turn him back, but he strides through it, breaking its hold.

_I don’t feel anything without you. I have no empathy without you._

_Why did we have to part?_

There’s a warmth against his chest: not corporeal, but he knows this hold, he knows the shape of this wind-shaped hand.

**_Don’t. Please._ **

He feels his heart beat faster under the slight weight, and flame trills through his veins, warming him. His feet falter half a step, and the pressure on his chest increases.

**_Please._ **

He shakes his head to dislodge the disembodied voice – it’s so much like _him_ – and moves forward again, fingers catching on a groove. He can’t let his delusion stop him from completing his mission.

No matter how hard it hurts.

He thinks he hears a gasp and a sob, feels more than sees the wind rush away. His hand reaches out again, as if to grasp the fleeting gale, but holds on to nothing.

He lets his arm fall to his side, swinging noiselessly, biting his lip under the cover of his hood.

No. He cannot fail.

He will succeed, and then he will be able to run with his lover, away from the destruction that is sure to follow.

But his determination is failing him, even as he breaks into the stronghold; he almost wants to give in to the delusion, the one that keeps telling him to **_Stop. Please, stop._**

Ha, he didn’t think he was this weak-willed. But against one person…

Against one person, he is not flame but water - a puddle, of melted sentiment and whispered words, a thousand wishes rolled into a lithe body.

He wants to finish this, so that he can be reunited with him.

He speeds through the castle walkways, quickly ending any unfortunate individuals in his path, his feet taking him through a path, a blueprint he has only ever seen on paper.

It is still too dark to see, but it gets brighter as he approaches the main chamber, though he doesn’t open his eyes. Not once.

It’s only when the guards in front of the Prince’s chamber are dispatched that he opens them to regard the door, placing a hand on it to test the strength of the lock.

But there is none.

He is brimming with scepticism, but pushes the door open – it glides on finely oiled hinges – to reveal a well-lit room, a figure sitting on the bed, back to him.

He steps in and shuts the door, padding forward, sword drawn.

The person turns, cloak falling from their shoulders, head tilted to regard him.

His heart beats heavily, slowly.

_Ba-dum. Ba-dum._

It’s him.

He can see it reflected in his eyes: the sword of flame, burning for his blood, a figure dressed in deepest black, dyed and dusted with soot.

He sees his mouth move, lips curling around the syllables, mouthing a word that will not be given breath.

**_Eita._ **

He’s not sure what falls first – his knees, buckling beneath him, or his sword, dissipating into the air?

But he’s curled into a ball, breaths short and quick, heart thrumming like a bird, distilled panic pumping through his body.

_Him. He’s the Prince._

_He’s my target._

He can hear him breathing; his light, controlled breaths, though they are too shallow to be relaxed, and fast enough to display his fear.

Memories flash through his mind in pretty droplets - a laughing face, an indignant pout – and he almost groans aloud, the pain of imminent loss warring with his sense of duty, honour.

But he knows – he knows what he will choose in the end.

_I can’t do it._

_I can’t kill him._

He lifts his head from his hands, rising slowly, and cocoa meets hazel – one set dilated with fear, one resigned and drawn.

He rises to his feet while keeping his gaze, and raises his hand to his heart, touching it to his lips.

**My heart; my love.**

The other relaxes – unwinds from his posture, repeating the gesture back to him. He stands on wobbly feet, raising his arms.

He dives in, grabbing him around the waist, swooping him off his feet, spinning him in great arcs around the room, face buried in his chest.

He smells like camellia and lye, with undertones of ash – an ash that should not be there, because he is not of Fire descent; he is the Wind Prince.

The Wind Prince who spent most of his time out of the castle, hidden in the Charred Forest and playing with the orphan assassin.

He never knew before; he knows now.

Their fates are sealed for them by the ones they intermittently serve, but the arms around him scream defiance.

They will serve no master, not any longer.

 _I will never let you go,_ he swears, coming to a halt, setting him on his feet.

His lover – a Prince! – squeezes his arms tightly, smiling wryly, slyly.

**_As long as you never try to assassinate me._ **

He shakes his head, promising, _I never knew it was you._

**_I know._ **

He leans up, fusing their lips, and he returns the gesture, cupping his face, pressing into him like he is a man starved.

(And he is, he is starved. Starved for his touch, thirsty for his love, dying without him by his side.)

He feels light hands on his face, his neck, fingers tangled in his hair. He feels the slightest breeze brush across his eyelids and they flutter open, meeting a gaze half-lidded, dark with want.

**_Let’s get out of here._ **

He pulls away, but keeps his hand, and they flit through the darkened hallways, feet pushed along by the wind, shadowed eyes leading the way.

And they run.

**Author's Note:**

> It's so short dang it I'm sorry


End file.
